


Show Me Your Teeth

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Series: The Hell-Raising Chronicles of the Trenchcoat Brigade [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Les Mis AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:31:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can use Lady Gaga titles as fic titles, shut up. A mostly smutty follow-up to “Toothless” (But also kind of funny, or so I like to think.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me Your Teeth

His breath is hot and it smells a little like alcohol still, and a little like blood and everything is just a little fuzzy. The way his lips move is enthralling.

“I like redheads” Bahorel says “who get up too early and work too hard, and smoke too many fucking cigarettes.”

Feuilly swallows. “Am I gonna have to dodge a chair?”

And he is genuinely surprised that Bahorel _doesn’t_ respond with “dodge this”. That, in light of everything he knows about Bahorel, would have made perfect sense. Instead, there are lips on his lips and he can taste something coppery and foreign, a little like alcohol and a little like blood and Bahorel is sucking on his lower lip hard enough to bruise. Feuilly’s hands have snaked under the hem of Bahorel’s tshirt, and he’s so _warm_. It takes him a minute to remember what’s happening, and for his hands to regain the sense to jam knuckles in Bahorel’s ribs.

Bahorel rears back, licking his lips and growling. “The fuck was that for?”

And Feuilly glares, rubbing his jaw. “I had _surgery_ , you ass. That _hurt.”_

Honestly, the sensible thing to do would be to kick him off the couch and just go back to sleep. Jacking off in the shower would be significantly less dangerous to his health and safety, and just as satisfying.

Except that it wouldn’t.

It wouldn’t because even he can’t re-create the picture in his head the way that it looks now, with Bahorel in that t-shirt he wears when he’s going out, transparently white and tissue thin with a neckline that ends somewhere below his goddamn sternum. You can see his nipples, for God’s sake, there’s no paint for that colour, it’s not _fair_. He’s not going to be able to re-paint the cracks and scars across the back of Bahorel’s hand splayed across his stomach, or the  callouses or the warmth. Feuilly can’t draw the grin on his face, something like a tiger or a smug housecat as Bahorel says “No kissing on the mouth? Damn, you’re high-class.” and lowers his mouth to Feuilly’s throat. It’s hot and wet and there are teeth scraping over his pulse and hands in his hair. Feuilly has his fingers pressed up against Bahorel’s chest again. He’s not sure how that happened.

His breath catches as Bahorel does something _obscene_ with his mouth. He fists his hand in the front of Bahorel’s v-neck and tugs irritably. “This is a stupid shirt.”  An absolutely _withering_ follow-up is just waiting, Feuilly has it perfectly timed, but it vanishes along with his other higher-order brain functions as Bahorel rolls his hips down and forward to sit up.

“This” he announces smugly “is a fucking _awesome_ shirt. You will observe,” and Bahorel strips off his fucking awesome shirt in one fluid motion, leaving his chest bare. Bahorel is almost six and a half feet tall. There’s a lot of chest to bare. Feuilly cannot be blamed for the needy, choked-off whine that escapes him as all of it bears down on him, everything sharp and defined like a goddamn anatomical reference guide. Bahorel pushes his Legia Warsaw jersey up to his ribs and drawls “Now, _this_ is a stupid shirt.”

It’s not. It is absolutely not, and they’re his favourite team so he strokes pale, clever fingers along the V of Bahorel’s hips in retaliation and grinds upward until the other man’s eyes flutter closed and he lets out a rough moan. _Then_ Feuilly loses the jersey. Nobody insults Warsaw.

His sweatpants, as it turns out, are also stupid pants, although not as stupid as Bahorel’s jeans, which take entirely too goddamn long to peel off. Feuilly will deny to his grave that this is partly because Bahorel won’t stop trying to find shapes in his freckles, mapping them out with his mouth and his warm hands.

“You are such a dick.” Feuilly snaps, as the jeans finally come off.

“I mean…” Bahorel gestures vaguely downward with a lewd smirk.

“ _Really?”_

“Shut the fuck up, I could have said ‘silken manhood’” He laughs against the inside of Feuilly’s thigh “iron-hard length.” And his mouth is a little higher now “freckled love-wand” Feuilly knees him in the side of the head, because Bahorel is an asshole. Bahorel’s mouth moves higher. Feuilly shuts the fuck up.

Later, lying in the lee of Bahorel’s broad chest, Feuilly groans, at the sudden realization that the _one fucking time_ a cigarette would be legitimately justifiable, he can’t have one.  It’s killing him. Bahorel knows things, though. Like where Feuilly stashes all the secret packs of cigarettes he keeps around, even when (especially when) he’s trying (failing) to quit. He knows about the one hidden under the armrest at the corner of the couch. He also knows that’s there’s a lighter on the coffee table. He wasn’t aware that a plume of nicotine smoke exhaled over his mouth would get Feuilly to make _that_ sound, but Bahorel’s pretty sure that he’s not going to forget any time soon.


End file.
